At this moment, Daming Lake looks like a spilled palette reflected in the human world

I don’t know when it started, but every autumn morning, I have a fixed destination. Just like the leaves always slowly turn yellow in the wind, the sunset always dyes the sky into fragments, and I will always pass by Daming Lake at exactly eight o’clock in the morning. Autumn at Daming Lake looks like someone accidentally spilled a palette—chaotic, yet every stroke touches the heart. The vermilion pavilion corners soak in light orange, golden willow leaves drift with warm yellow, the indigo bridge arches reflect deep blue, and the pale reeds by the shore and the sparkling gold on the water’s surface, mixed with the morning mist’s haziness, splash the entire autumn’s colors onto this pool of lake water. Actually, no matter how lively the colors on the palette are, they can’t compare to the gentleness of the morning breeze. I have seen the eight o’clock sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting mottled colorful shadows on the stone path, like spilled ink from the palette; I have seen fallen leaves with half-yellow, half-red hues slowly drifting onto the water, dyeing the lake into a flowing oil painting; I have also seen the morning mist wrapped in orange dawn light, giving the grasses and trees on the shore a soft warm tone. I set a rule for myself: only stand by the lake for three minutes every day. From eight o’clock to eight oh-three, I watch the morning light slowly spread colors, watch the fallen leaves gently kiss the lake surface, watch this spilled palette blend all the autumn’s tenderness into every breeze. People change, but autumn at Daming Lake does not. Every year at this time, it always spills the palette on time, waiting for me to pass by at exactly eight o’clock, to catch the entire autumn’s brilliance and laziness.